


Unity

by IambicKentameter



Category: Assassin's Creed, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Assassin's Creed AU, Body Positivity, Established Relationship, It's got some Porn, Kind of chronological?, M/M, Story told through paintings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IambicKentameter/pseuds/IambicKentameter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Enjolras' single imperative to overthrow the monarchy, and he will accomplish that goal to any end. Grantaire holds the single imperative to win Enjolras' heart. This part of the story we all have heard before. </p><p>However, one story remains untold. The story of Enjolras, his hidden wrist blade, and the man who inspired him to take his fight from a peaceful protest to a raging war.</p><p>Told through a gallery of R's paintings, many many years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't speak french, here are the translations:  
> jolie=cute.  
> Beaux= beautiful.  
> J'adore jouer avec tes cheveux.= I love to play with your hair.  
> Souriez plus= smile more.
> 
> Also: this was the only painting that is out of order, all of the chapters are in chronological order from here on out.
> 
> EDIT: A better version of this, with more assassins creed elements and quite frankly a plot is Unity 2.0

           “And now, if you’ll follow me, we have our newest exhibition on the Victorian Era artist, ‘R’. Please turn your attention to our first painting of him, a self-portrait. Notice how exaggerated his features are, his nose and eyebrows too large for his face, to the point where we’re not sure if this is what he really looked like.”

           The tour guide got up close to the painting and gestured to the pastel writing over acrylic shadows. “We believe that this writing is that of his principal muse, and supposed lover, perhaps to promote ‘Body Positivity’. If you’ll notice, it is written in French, as the artist was living in France at the time of the Revolution.”

~*~

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ voice was almost pleading. Grantaire shut the door behind himself with a soft click, peering at the blond in his room. “What is this?” His voice sounded hurt; that’s what drew Grantaire’s attention.

Enjolras was holding up his self-portrait. It was ugly, hideous like him, with a bulbous nose and wild hair, eyes that were too close together and a downturned mouth, exaggerating the frown lines he saw on himself.

“A self portrait.” Grantaire continued to unbutton his shirt. "I painted that last week, when you were off getting yourself hurt and practically killed." The 'when we were fighting about everything' remained unspoken.

"You mean to say you think you look as such?" Enjolras' eyebrows furrowed, his nose crinkled. He darted past Grantaire and slammed the canvas down on his desk, rattling the frame.

"Enjolras? What the hell are you doing?" Grantaire dashed after him, coming to a stunned halt behind him. "What... Enjolras! You're going to ruin it!"

His leader had taken one of the oil pastels scattered about and was scribbling in bright yellow. "You," Enjolras growled as he bat Grantaire's hands away. "Are beautiful. Whether you like it or not."

Grantaire squinted at his self portrait, reading Enjolras' cramped handwriting that was scrawled all over his previously untainted self portrait.

'Jolie' was written sideways, up his nose, 'Beaux' on his eyes. 'J'adore jouer avec tes  cheveux.' Stood out against pitch black ringlets of his hair.

Enjolras had also drawn a yellow, upturned line over his mouth, accompanied with the phrase 'souriez plus'.

"This is how you see me?" Grantaire brushed the edge of the canvas with his outstretched hand.

"You are beautiful." Enjolras tossed the painting aside, causing Grantaire to flinch. "Je-t-adore, Grantaire." Enjolras took both of his hands and kissed them each in turn. "I love you."

Grantaire said nothing until Enjolras tugged him close and kissed him. "I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't speak french, here are the translations:  
> jolie=cute.  
> Beaux= beautiful.  
> J'adore jouer avec tes cheveux.= I love to play with your hair.  
> Souriez plus= smile more.
> 
> Also: this was the only painting that is out of order, all of the chapters are in chronological order from here on out.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a day that stood out in Grantaire's mind as the day that Enjolras finally saw him for the man he was, the man he always wanted Enjolras to see. Grantaire knew that somewhere along the line Enjolras would have to look past his drunken stupor and overall sour attitude and perhaps then Enjolras would love him in return. But perhaps there was some merit to the phrase 'Compromises must be made.'

 

He stumbled out of the bar he had been propping up, finally out of money to spend and too soaked to find some more. His palm smacked against the rough cobblestone of the Parisian streets, his shaking arm struggling to keep his face from hitting the ground. He forced himself up onto his knees and threw his fists in the air.

“Vive la Revolution!” He cried, a smile breaking out on his face. “Mort au Roi! Liberte pour-” His shouts of revolution were cut off by a swift kick to his stomach.

“You. Drunk” The guard speaking gripped Grantaire’s cravat and drug him into the nearest alley. “What do you think you’re yelling about?”

“An angel has come down from heaven to avenge the people of Paris who you leave rotting-” His Enjolras-inspired rambling was cut off again with a knee to the same spot as before. “Police brutality!” He laughed drunkenly through his pain, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the cobblestones. Maybe he was worse off than he thought.

“Keep your mouth shut.” the police growled, before a figure dropped out of the sky and punched him straight in the jaw.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire fought his melting body to stand. “You’ve saved me!”

“Grantaire, keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.” The hood of Enjolras’ favorite red jacket was pulled up around his face, blonde curls hanging out and sticking to his sweat slick skin. “I hurt this man.”

“And if he ever wakes up, he’ll remember our faces and your cause will be less than it already is.” He was suddenly sober. “As you will be dead.”

“Than I will die a martyr.”

“They would never read your crimes, nor your name. You would die a nameless, faithless, peasant.” Grantaire spat. “However, if you kill him, everyone will know you are serious in your deeds.” Grantaire then decided to play into Enjolras’ ego, as well as his drive for liberty. “And they will hear you.”

“I fight for freedom, and peace.”

“Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.” Grantaire took Enjolras’ elbow. “One life may be worth ours.” With his other hand, he drew his own dagger from his waistcoat. “Use this.”

Enjolras took it and pulled away from Grantaire. “Leave me.”

“Enjolras-”

“Leave.” Enjolras growled. “I must do this in solitude.”

“When you’ve decided…” Grantaire squeezed his shoulder and brushed a stray blond hair away from his face where it was stuck with rain. “I will be waiting at your apartment.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras ground out before the other finally left, all the drunkard banished from his swagger.

~

Grantaire was waiting in his bedroom patiently, and rose to his feet the second Enjolras entered, an oddly serene look on his face.

“Enjolras-”

“It needn’t be said.” Enjolras stopped him with a gesture and a single look.

“What happened?”

“Grantaire.” The severity of his features bore a strange focus; a yearning. “I don’t want to talk.”

Their lips met then, Grantaire’s palms immediately warming Enjolras’ back, wandering the panes of his shoulders, tracing the bumps of his spine and cupping his sharp hipbones.

Enjolras’ hands immediately attacked the ties of Grantaire’s shirt, tearing it halfway open before halting, his fingers finding the course black curls on Grantaire’s chest. “I…” Enjolras brushed a hand down Grantaire’s chest, fingers combing out curled, tangled hairs. “Wow. Does it go… All the way down?”

Grantaire chuckled. “Some parts are hairy. “He shrugged. “Some are not.”

“I’d like to see.” Enjolras said softly.

Grantaire nodded and, shirt still hanging, unbuttoned, around his shoulders, reached for the drawstrings of his trousers.

“No.” Enjolras said quickly, staying Grantaire’s hand with his voice. “Wait. I wish to do this myself.”

Grantaire stood still, afraid to move for fear of Enjolras stopping.

Enjolras sunk to his knees, taking Grantaire’s exposed half-hard cock into his mouth gently and cautiously, exploring the sensitive skin with his tongue.

Grantaire gasped and his hand twitched, dying to card his fingers through Enjolras’ soft hair, still wet from the rain. But he didn’t want to startle him, and most definitely didn’t want him to stop.

It only took a few minutes for Grantaire to break. “Enj, please-”

“Hm?” Enjolras hummed and pulled off of Grantaire with an awkward slurping sound. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, I… I just…” Grantaire tugged at his arm, pressing their lips together when Enjolras rose to his feet.

“Need me?” Enjolras asked, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. “I want you too, Grantaire. I want you now.”

Grantaire spun them around, gesturing for Enjolras to mount his bed before they could continue.

Enjolras slid up the bed as far as he could, giving Grantaire plenty of room to crawl up on top of him, fingers already slick with oil found from some random drawer in Grantaire’s mess of a room.

“Enjolras, are you-”

“Grantaire, I swear, if you ask me again I will end you.” Enjolras growled. “I want this, I’m absolutely sure. I want you.”

Grantaire nodded his understanding and gradually began working his first finger into Enjolras’ entrance. Enjolras stayed calm until Grantiare brushed something inside him, and he cried out in surprise and pleasure.

“Ah!” Enjolras gasped as Grantaire began to slide it slowly out and back in again. He was trembling, deep shudders and small breathy sounds wracking his frame and sending heat straight to Grantaire’s cock. He looked about to collapse; Grantaire wrapped his brawny, solid arm around Enjolras’s waist, drawing their chests together as his finger continued to work in and out of Enjolras’ body. He’s so unbelievably tight, and so hot; the heat of him around just Grantaire’s finger is unbelievable, and he had to bite down hard on his lip as he thought about that heat around his cock, squeezing and clenching. Enjolras groaned suddenly, twisting in Grantaire’s grip.

“Enjolras? Do you need me to stop?” Grantaire asked quickly, finger already starting to slide out.

“No!” Enjolras  demanded, pushing back onto Grantaire’s finger in a carnal, frantic thrust. “No no no, right there, right there, that feels so good.

Grantaire took a deep, calming breath and marveled distantly at his sheer luck at being able to hold this man in his arms – this beautiful, insane, absolute wreck of a man – and make him feel so spectacular he couldn’t speak in full sentences. His cock twitched at the realization that Enjolras’ body was practically shaking with the need to be spread wide and fucked deep by Grantaire. Grantaire, whose life seemed so hollow and faked and meaningless only a few short months ago. It’s him Enjolras is laying here with, his neck that Enjolras was kissing now. He gets to be the one to watch Enjolras fall to pieces, to his assumption, first.  

Unsteadily, Grantaire removed his arm from Enjolras’ waist and his finger from Enjolras’ entrance and replacing it with two, eliciting a wail of desperation from the trembling man beneath him.

“Ahh!” Enjolras wailed, arching up to Grantaire’s touch as he stroked deep inside. “Oh, fuck – ah! – just like that. Unhh.”  

“I’m doing alright, then?” Grantaire’s voice sounded unsteady and not at all sensual, like he wanted it to be. It felt as though he was holding all of Enjolras in his arms, like he could touch every part of him at once, make every inch of Enjolras his. Grantaire increased his speed, stretching Enjolras wide as he thrust his fingers faster and harder. Enjolras groaned.

“Y-Yes, of course you are. You’re probably much more experienced at this than-” Enjolras’ words were cut off and he grunted in surprise when Grantaire worked a third finger inside. Enjolras’ arms gave way, and he landed roughly on Grantaire’s pillow as Grantaire’s fingers pounded into him. It took a moment for Grantaire to realize that he was speaking again.

“N-need you.” The words were barely audible and wracked with desperation. Grantaire’s pace slowed, and Enjolras raised his head slightly, breath fractured and sounding as though he is about to shatter, lips brushing Grantaire’s ear. “Please, Grantaire. I need your cock inside me.”

“Of course,” He heard himself say, pulling his fingers from Enjolras’ tight ass. Enjolras whined as he had before, long and low, but remained in his position.

Grantaire positioned himself over Enjolras – trembling Enjolras, beautiful Enjolras, normally-prim Enjolras – and pushed in roughly.

Enjolras screams – actually screams – with pleasure as Grantaire filled him up, and the sensation of Enjolras  squeezing around his cock, slicked up and hot and wanting and willing, was so unbelievably amazing. Enjolras was panting harshly. Grantaire took a moment to let them both adjust, then gripped the wood of his headboard and set a hard, fast pace.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras gasped, his voice catching. He thrust back as best he can, but the angle was awkward and he couldn’t do much. It became frenzied; heated and breathy and the slap of skin against skin filling the room. There was a bright heat building at the base of Grantaire’s spine, letting him know he was growing close.

Grantaire reached one hand down and stroked Enjolras’ cock once, twice, and Enjolras was gone, grunting aloud as he came over Grantaire’s hand. The sensation of Enjolras clenching around him was enough to send him over and Grantaire followed, vision whiting out as liquid pleasure explodes behind his eyelids and every one of his nerve endings sings.

Grantaire came back to himself a few moments later, breath coming in harsh, shuddering breaths. Beneath him, Enjolras had gone limp – as though every muscle in his body had decided to fall asleep all at once. Grantaire’s hands were still clamped too-tightly around Enjolras’s hip and cock. When he let go, Enjolras gasped – and when Grantaire slowly, slowly pulled out, Enjolras lets out a soft, high sigh.

He fell onto his back beside Enjolras, still in shock from the mind-blowing orgasm – as well as the fact that he has just had sex with Enjolras. He let out a long, shaky sigh.

As though summoned, Enjolras rolled onto Grantaire’s chest, tucking his head into the crook of Grantaire’s shoulder and throwing a thin, pale arm across Grantaire’s broad chest. Grantaire pulled him close, Enjolras feeling so soft and non-threatening against him it was physically shocking.

“Are you alright, Enjolras?” Grantaire looked down at Enjolras’s curled up form along his side, anxious concern welling within him. “Fuck, I didn’t get too rough for you, did I? You just seemed –”

And for the first time since they began to make love, Enjolras opened his eyes and Grantaire could see the affection in them. Enjolras was shockingly beautiful. His cheeks were flushed and Grantaire can see that his lower lip was slightly reddened and swollen – presumably from Enjolras’s attempts at silencing himself by biting down on it. There was a small amount of saliva running down his chin. His eyelashes were damp with tears, sparkling.

He had never looked so utterly content.

“I’m absolutely wonderful.” Enjolras assured him, pressing their lips together. “I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”

“You’ve imagined this?” Grantaire asked skeptically.

“Only a few moments before I walked in the door.” Enjolras assured him. “This was quite rash, on my part.”

“Undoubtedly.” Grantaire snorted. “And now I suppose you must take your leave of me?”

“Only briefly. Can’t be raising any eyebrows, now can we?” Enjolras slipped out of bed at that moment, rummaging around Grantaire’s mess of a room in search of his trousers. “Tomorrow, Grantaire. I’ll see you at our rally?”

Grantaire nodded non-committally, watching Enjolras’ barely clad body leave his apartment without much further ado.


	3. Chapter 3

~*~

“I like to think that this painting is the homiest of them all.” The tour guide led the group to a medium sized canvas at the end of the hall. “Note the use of chiaroscuro, the darkness surrounding the couple, yet they are lit by the fire before them, creating a warm glow around the lover’s head, almost angelic in nature…”

~*~

Grantaire laid on his couch, book in hand and the fire gradually dying beside him.

The door to his apartment opened suddenly, Enjolras nearly collapsing as he entered through it, dripping wet and shaking.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire leapt up from his couch and supported the other man as best as he could. “What happened?”

“Our demonstration was rained upon.” Enjolras muttered through chattering teeth. “It began nearly five hours ago, by my estimate.”

“You moron.” Grantaire seethed, stripping Enjolras efficiently. “Don’t tell Joly of this, but I shall treat you myself. Go.” He ushered Enjolras to his wardrobe. “Change into something warm. I’ll go split wood for the fire.”

“You would build me a fire?” Enjolras looked up at Grantaire through wet bangs.

“Darling, I would build you any fire you should wish for me to build you. I would do absolutely anything for you.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras chattered, hand shaking as he cupped Grantaire’s cheek. “I am cold. And while I have a great affinity for you after last night, especially when you wax poetic of your affections, I must admit I am quite in need of a fire now.”

“Right.” Grantaire got up and went outside, shivering as he gathered wood to be split.

Perhaps Grantaire had come across too strongly with his affections. They’d only slept together once, the night before. He only knew that Enjolras must have been humoring him, or at least using his affections as some sort of ploy to get Grantaire to do what he wanted. And yet, for the first time in his witness, Enjolras had not scolded Grantaire for not being there, at his demonstration. Instead, he had accepted Grantaire’s clothes and offer of shelter in the first place.

Enjolras was already on his couch, shivering under a blanket.

Grantaire shuffled around his pillbox apartment silently.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras mumbled, reaching out of his cocoon. grantaire turned after building the fire. “Come to me. Keep me warm.”

Grantaire complied, crawling under Enjolras, along with every blanket in his house.

Enjolras curled on top of him, one hand resting on Grantaire’s chest, just at the point where his shirt untied, revealing a black curly mane of chest hair. Enjolras smiled. “You have hair Everywhere.” He fiddled with the curls. “It is quite masculine.”

“And you.... You enjoy my masculinity?” Grantaire asked cautiously.

“As opposed to?” Enjolras half-laughed.

“Myself being… perhaps a bit more feminine? No hair, but that on my head. Perhaps a smaller nose, or even a thinner jaw-” His train of thought was cut off by a soft, chilled set of lips pressing to his own.

“I like kissing you.” Enjolras mumbled. “It keeps you from saying such ridiculous things.”

“Ridiculous things?”

“You are not ugly to me.” Enjolras mumbled “In fact, your manhood is very appealing to me.” He chuckled. “Mean to say, your masculinity. Not manhood. Although, that is quite…”

Grantaire snickered at his bashfulness. “Quite what?”

The timid smile fell from Enjolras’ blue-tinged lips. “I think I'd like to sleep now.” Enjolras said firmly.

Grantaire nodded silently, his chin bumping Enjolras a bit.

Enjolras’ hand clenched in Grantaire’s shirt, getting his attention. “You must know by now that I cannot love something with only half my heart.”

“Your passion is sometimes too big for your ability.” Grantaire failed to hide the venom from his voice.

Enjolras scoffed. “I’m trying to tell you I love you, Grantaire-”

“But-”

“-And that I cannot love you with only half of my heart.”

It felt as though a weight was lifted from his chest, and his legs curled around Enjolras’. “I love you as well.”

“This I knew.” Enjolras gave him a small smile. “If you could shout it from the rooftops, I know you would.”

“If I could sing I would do that too.” Grantaire tugged their blanket up until it was around Enjolras’ ears.

“Please, do not sing.” Enjolras moaned. Grantaire laughed loudly, chest vibrating and disrupting Enjolras slightly. when he quieted, he noticed Enjolras peering at him, features hardened. “Last night…” Enjolras said cautiously. “Last night, you told me that my efforts were fruitless unless I was to kill that man. You also told me that you were in love with me.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, waiting for his love to reach a concluding thought. “Is that why you’re wet? were you not at your demonstration? Were you out looking for more soldiers?”

“Quiet, Grantaire, let me think aloud.” He held up a shaking hand. “I say this because as I walked home today, I saw a poster proclaiming us ‘The Rats of Paris’. It had a ransom posted for a hooded figure with a dagger like the one you gave me. I can’t help but think that that man is me, and that the ‘Rats of Paris’ are finally being seen as rebels with a cause by our King. All of my ambitions have been realized because you told me to slaughter a young man yesterday.”

Grantaire was silent for a long moment, the only sound being the crackle of slowly burning longs. “His life was a small stone in the foundation of your crusade.”

Enjolras snorted cynically. “How strange it is to me that you believe in me more passionately than I believe in change, yet I take you as a cynic.”

“Strange indeed.” Grantaire hummed.

“And how poetic you are, even when…” Enjolras interrupted himself with a yawn.

“Sleep, my love.” Grantaire whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

~*~

"Each of these paintings focuses on the same subjects, all young men, and the occasional woman, fighting as revolutionaries before the war. Here, in our second painting, we have one friend assisting a flushed young man with his medical needs. It is named 'inamorato' after the popular Commedia dell'Arte archetype of the lover. This young man is depicted waxing poetic of a woman he saw on the streets and claimed as his future wife..."

~*~

"Grantaire, you yourself could not paint her beauty, for it resounds through my soul even now, like a drumbeat on high." Marius babbled, only ceasing to wince each time Joly's needle added a stitch to his cheek.

Grantaire smirked behind his canvas, a depiction of the sight before him unfolding on the stiff fabric. "What happened to the Marius I once knew? Here I thought you were forever paralyzed by the sight of a woman."

"Any other woman, perhaps, but never her. She's a shining star upon the highest mountain." Marius sighed, eyes wandering up to the ceiling.

Jehan, their poet and resident romantic entered the already cramped side room of the Café Musian. "Gentlemen, how many of you were injured?"

"Most of them that went." Grantaire didn't even look up from his canvas. "Great lot of buffoons they were."

"Jehan!" Courfeyrac shoved his way through the crowd to reach the new comer.

"Courfeyrac, what happened?!" Jehan threw himself at the other, hugging him tightly.

"Police broke it up." Courfeyrac cringed when smiling caused his bruising eye to ache. "But, I stole something for you.” He pulled a club from his belt and laid it in Jehan’s open palms.

“You shouldn’t have stolen.” Jehan chided, blushing.

“You didn’t have a weapon, what else was I supposed to-” Courfeyrac stopped speaking when he caught sight of something over Jehan’s shoulder.

The entire room silenced, all but Grantaire’s heavy, uncensored laugh.

“Grantaire.” Jehan called softly for the man’s attention.

Grantaire leapt up the second he saw Enjolras in the doorway, running forward to his lover and reaching for damp, pink tinted curls. “Enjolras, Mon Dieu! I thought you were dead!”

Enjolras’ jacket was gently removed by Joly, who also removed his shirt in search of the source of blood. Joly ushered him back to the table. Grantaire followed eagerly, his hands never leaving a piece of Enjolras’ body.

Enjolras shoved Grantaire away, his eyes narrowed. “You are a coward, and a liar.” He hissed low and barely loud enough to hear.

Joly glanced nervously between the two of them, but Grantaire motioned for him to stay. Enjolras needed the medical care their friend offered.

Grantaire stepped back, frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Am I a coward for staying with her?” He cocked his head and sat on the edge of his stool, still at an angle from his easel. “Am I a liar for not fighting with you?”

"You are a liar when your claim for me is love, yet your cowardice will not protect France." Enjolras' voice rose, his lips tightening.

"My love for you," Grantaire stood, hands flourishing erratically. "Is far more than my love of France!”

“I am France!” Enjolras tore his bleeding arm away from Joly, the man squeaking in shock.

“Gentlemen!” Combeferre interrupted from the doorway. “Put off this bantering! We have a greater cause than this!”

Grantaire turned his fury on the most sound of his friends. “I have no greater cause than our leader’s-” He spat the word vehemently at the man he spoke of. “-Love and adoration, but I remain second to an ungrateful people!”

Enjolras’ hand shot out and curled in Grantaire’s crazed hair. “How dare you think that I love anything more than you!” Enjolras growled, his mouth finding Grantaire’s in an angry, bruising kiss.

“Appalling, the both of you.” Combeferre eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“My bed.” Enjolras growled around Grantaire’s bottom lip, loud enough for the whole room to hear, and rough enough to shock them all.

“Your bed.” Grantaire agreed fervently.

“Be wary of your arm!” Joly called after their friends, ever attached as they were.

“He will be as soon as it pains him.” Combeferre clapped his friend on the shoulder reassuringly. “Come. Let us work.”

 

~*~

“Personally, I think R was distracted during this piece.” The tour guide directed the group to the next piece of work, a charcoal sketch of a bathroom vanity set, mirror displaying a bathing figure just out of frame. “It seems as though he initially meant to draw this basin and toiletries around it, but somehow, the person taking a bath off to the side takes more of our interest than any of this. is off, and if you look closely, you can see the implication that this is a man, and may very well be his muse and lover at the time…

~*~

Perhaps Grantaire was angry with Enjolras, but it didn’t seem to change the fact he could take over any sketch Grantaire could attempt. Damn it all.

“The only thing I can think of doing at our next demonstration is literally storming the Bastille.” Enjolras shifted in the tub, some water sloshing out as a result. Grantaire hummed in response, not looking up from his sketchbook. “Grantaire.” He say up and flicked water at the other man.

Grantaire’s head shot up. “What?!” He barked angrily.

“I have been laying out in this tub for the last hour, completely naked, and yet you have not spared me a single glance.”

“Pardon me, oh fearless leader, but I assumed we were still arguing about nothing.” Grantaire went back to his sketchbook, even switching charcoals. “Seeing as that is what you consider your life.

Enjolras sighed. “We would not get anywhere in this relationship if we never spoke, even while we were upset with one another.”

“What are you suggesting?” Grantaire set his tools aside and kneeled by the tub. He wanted this to be over.

“Rules.” Enjolras shifted to face grantaire, resting his chin against the edge of the porcelain tub, their noses nearly brushing.

“Rules?” Grantaire repeated.

“The quarrel ceases to be active when someone is nude.” Enjolras’ eyes darted downwards, to himself, then met Grantaire’s gaze. His lithe fingers tangled themselves in Grantaire’s cravat. “Come now, love. Let us put off this senseless bantering and splash some bathwater around.” He murmured suggestively.

Grantaire sighed as Enjolras untied the cravat and tossed it aside. “If that is a rule, we shall never resolve-”

Enjolras’ mouth closed over his. “Shush. I am naked and waiting, Grantaire.”

“I see now why you demand I do all of my sketching in your bathroom.”

“Talk less. Undress more.”

Grantaire complied quickly and joined Enjolras with a splash. Enjolras ran delicate fingers down Grantaire’s chest, straightening dark curls dusted there.

“I love you.” Enjolras said softly. “I don’t want to lose you over something I said.”

“Somehow a stray bullet seems worse.” Grantaire’s eyes drifted, and he slid down to lay gentle kisses over Enjolras’ face and shoulders.

“Not now, Grantaire. Naked.”

Much later, after Grantaire was dressed and had retrieved his sketchbook, he was descending the steps in search of a bottle, and instead found a flustered looking Combeferre.

“Did you two make that mess downstairs?” Combeferre whispered.

“Mess?” Grantaire held his case of charcoals between his teeth so he could finish buttoning his waistcoat.

“There is bathwater everywhere downstairs. Our landlord is raising hell.”

“And you think we did it?”

“I find that you two have the perpetual tendency to be discovered nude in the strangest of places.”

Grantaire laughed softly, cupped Combeferre’s face, and kissed both of his cheeks. “When you are in love, no place is strange.”

“And you are in love?” Combeferre scoffed.

“Combeferre, mon ami, I am afflicted with the most powerful sickness, and the only cure is Enjolras.”

“Perhaps you should talk to Joly.” Combeferre called after his retreating friend.

“For what? I don’t need any grapes or rotten oranges, I promise.” Grantaire winked and sauntered off.


	5. Chapter 5

~*~

“This is one of R’s midlife pieces, a simple landscape done of the streets outside his apartment window. You can see the desolate state the country is in before these young men launch into revolution…”

~*~

The breeze nipped at Grantaire’s exposed groin. He doesn’t particularly care, as he’s halfway done with his next painting, a simple landscape of the alleyway behind his apartment. A cat was snoozing on the street below, a small boy tossing something up at the bricks of the building adjacent, then catching it when it fell back near his hands.

Grantaire lay his paintbrush between his teeth, clamping down to hold it as he took a smaller brush to dab on flecks of grey to the boy’s trousers.

The door behind him slammed open, startling him into dropping both brushes and paints.

“You called my parents on me?” Enjolras was seething.

Grantaire was immediately on the defense. “I-”

“I could see you calling the police, that seems a very Grantaire thing to do.” Enjolras spoke over him, slamming the door behind him and encroaching upon Grantaire’s space. “Calling Combeferre would be stepping over a line, but my mother is completely out of line.

“I don’t even know where your parents live!”

“You don’t? Then why did a pageboy show up to my parent’s house this morning, just in time for them to arrest us? A pageboy who claims to have seen you tell him to do so?!” Enjolras stepped back when Grantaire leapt to his feet.

“You were arrested?!”

“Like you don’t know!” Enjolras scoffed.

“I don’t know, Enjolras, I swear!”

“Grantaire, the pageboy gave a description of a man with medium build and had dark curly hair.”

Grantaire fell silent. That was a description of himself, but he knew in his heart he hadn’t done anything. “I’ve been home all day, Enjolras, I swear!”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Grantaire! I-”

Grantaire interrupted his rant by removing his shirt.

“Grantaire, what are you-”

“You said yourself that the argument ends when one of us is naked. And as I already paint without pants…” He trailed off, pausing to remove his socks.

“Grantaire, you can’t-”

“I know I’m right, Enjolras. You know that you are right.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you.” Enjolras said stubbornly.

“I don’t want to have sex with you either.” Grantaire returned. “But you yourself made the rule. Now, I am naked, and the argument is put on hold.”

“The idea was to be put on hold until after we’d finished lovemaking.”

“Then you can wait for me to finish my painting as an alternative to love making.” Grantaire sat at his stool and picked up his paintbrush once more.

There was a knock on the door a few moments later, and grantaire spun on his stool to see who it was.

“Enjolras, I need to-” Courfeyrac entered halfway before crying out in shock and backing out into the hallway, “Jesus, R, Put on some pants.”

Grantaire reached for a bed sheet and tugged it over his lap.

“What do you need, Courf?” Enjolras deadpanned.

“I need to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Grantaire asked. “For what?”

“First, let me explain.” Courfeyrac took a full step into the room. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Enjolras, but there are signs posted everywhere. Signs asking for your death. I presumed that having your parents call an end to our protest was easier for you to handle than being shot in the streets.”

Enjolras said nothing, only stared at Courfeyrac, yet his features softened.

“Black curly hair, and a medium build…” Grantaire whispered to himself, breaking the silence.

Enjolras maintained focus on courfeyrac, his body stiff yet trembling. “Forgive me Grantaire, for I have wronged you.”

Grantaire turned back to his painting flippantly, dying to finish it in time to show his instructor later that afternoon. He’d said Grantaire should stray from renaissance style portraits for a moment, so he chose landscape art.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered again, his voice somehow breathier. Grantaire grunted a response, pushing the sound out around his paintbrush, which was firmly lodged between his teeth. “Please forgive me, please. If I could return my words of anger and thank you, I would, Grantaire.”

Grantaire spun on his stool. “Enjolras, your passion is this wonderful, amazing thing. Apologies are welcome, but when your fire is turned on someone, it can only be used for good.”

“But I yelled at you, love.”

“And I accept your apology. But never, Mon petit poule, apologize for your fire.”  
Grantaire took Enjolras’ hand and kissed his knuckles. “Go downstairs, get some food. you look exhausted.

 

~*~

“Very sadly, this painting was ruined by a wine-spill shortly after its conception. Yet we can still see the vague shape of a man, blond hair more of a gold tint, standing on something up high, above the artist. We can only guess at to what he…”

~*~

“Wait….” Jehan put his hand out, stopping Enjolras in his listing of their plans and assets. “What of Grantaire? Nowhere in our plans have you listed his name.”

“Because Grantaire is in no part of my plan.” Enjolras said calmly, coldly.

Everyone froze, glancing at each other nervously.

“We… are not taking Grantaire?” Marius glanced between all of his friends, confused. “We should need him if we are going to raid the Bastille for weapons. He’s the best at-”

“At what?!” Enjolras snapped. “He’s a drunk who is good for nothing but trouble.”

Grantaire, who was eaves dropping from his hiding place in the hall, heard it very clear in the shrill snap of his lover’s voice.

He sunk down the wall in despair. Not only did Enjolras not love him but he had exorcised him from their group of friends.

He retired to the bar downstairs, and after a few drinks too many, Grantaire had effectively impaired his ability to remember how eight year old french wine had found itself splashed over his latest painting.

It used to be Enjolras, bathed in light and gold’s, out of his usual reds and blacks and clothed in a stained white shirt he’d stolen off Grantaire’s floor, looking down at him. The light from the window behind him had once bathed his entire person in a etherial light, but now, it was all to naught. It was all a dripping smudge. He’d ruined it, he realized, just like everything else.

He wiped angry tears from his eyes before they could be born, stomping down the steps and out of their shared apartment.

From a chiseled stump he did tear his father’s firewood axe, tucking it between his belt and the waist of his pants.


	6. Chapter 6

~*~

 

“Our next painting is significantly darker than the proceeding ones, so much so that it almost seems like a baroque piece. The painting depicts a young lady, injured and receiving medical attention from this young man here. As we can see, the Inamorato is crouching behind her, tending to her…”

~*~

“Everyone has collected weapons, Enjolras.” Combeferre tugged him away to say. “They are waiting for your word.”

“Alright, does anyone know how to use what they’ve got?” Enjolras asked their meager group. Most of the young man shrugged, all but Combeferre. “Combeferre,” Enjolras pointed him out immediately. “Teach the gentlemen who have taken up arms how to fire properly. I shall teach the others swordplay.”

They split off into two groups, leaving Grantaire and the girls to sit in the grass, alone.

Eponine looked to Cosette, affronted. “And what if I want to learn?”

Cosette nodded in agreement. “I agree!”

“Ladies, if I may?” Grantaire interrupted. “Joly has a rifle that he refuses to use. Perhaps we could borrow it?”

“And he would teach us how to shoot?”

“Of course not. Do you know Joly?” Grantaire chuckled. “But I will teach you. Joly!” He called to the passing young man. “May we use your rifle?”

“Of course.” Joly handed it over willingly. “I was about to put it away anyway.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Grantaire grinned and turned to Eponine. “Alright, this is for you. Cosette, you’ll go next. Lay the end against your shoulder, like so.” Grantaire helped her put it into place, graciously pulling her hair out of the way for her and tying it back with a ribbon,  offered by Cosette.

“What shall I aim for, Capitol R?” Eponine teased and whisked her rifle about (Giving Grantaire a small heart attack until he noticed her finger far from the trigger.)

“Aim for that apple tree, he pointed to indicate the one. “That one, there. Far from anyone else.”

“I am surprised at you, Grantaire.” Cosette stepped in line with him and out of Eponine’s way. “Someone who spends so much time in pubs to know so much is a shock.”

“Many people go to bars. Many people like to talk about what they know how to do, and more often than not they are perfectly willing to share how to do certain to things. Certain things like shooting a rifle in proper conduct. Eponine? The tree.”

Eponine refocused her attention on the tree, shifting the gun just the tiniest to the side and rested it against her upper arm.

“Wait, ‘Pon-” Grantaire tried to stop her, but the shot rang out and she screamed. The bark of the tree exploded, bits flying out and flickering over faces.

“Eponine!” Cosette fell to her knees, and took her friend’s arm. Eponine screamed again.

Joly was the first to reach her. “Sh, shh, sit up, let’s see.” He checked her forehead instinctively. “Good, no fever.”

“She probably dislocated it.” Grantaire kneeled beside them, his hand going to Eponine’s. “The butt of her rifle wasn’t in the right place.”

“I can fix that.” Joly took her right arm gently. “Hold still, friend, and keep your tongue away from your teeth.” He cupped her shoulder, the one hanging limp and looking distorted, then jammed it back into place. Eponine howled.

Marius crouched behind her, petting her hair back until she stopped whimpering.

Enjolras hooked a hand around Grantaire’s elbow and dragged him up to view the scene from above. “I want you to paint this moment, Grantaire. So the world may see how we hurt ourselves in the fight.”

“Are you admitting that this is a dangerous venture?” Grantaire asked solemnly.

“Dangerous, of course. Fruitless, no.”

 

~*~

 

“The tour guide lead the group to a large painting, nearly six feet high and four feet wide, depicting a dark forge, lit only by the blacksmith’s fire and the deep orange of nearly-liquid metal. “Again, R plays with the lights and darks in his little known real life painting, ‘Le Début De Le Bagarre’ or, ‘The Beginning of the Fight.’ Supposedly, R’s lover went to a forgery such as this to claim his famed weapon, a hidden extension knife he wore on his wrist…”

~*~

Enjolras slunk around a set of buildings, all crammed together in the lower streets of Paris.

“Uh, Cherie?” Grantaire caught up with his stone faced lover. “Where are we off to?”

“You haven’t spoken a word since we left…” Combeferre walked between the two, yet off to the side, brushing people aside.

Enjolras shrugged one of Grantaire’s hands away, coming to a halt in front of the shop in the center of the row.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre froze, watching him. “Where are we?”

“A blacksmith.” Enjolras pushed open the door and strode through confidently. “Did you get my letter?” he announced to the empty, plain wooden room.

A gaping doorway to the left of their entrance gave way to the forge at the back. “Enjolras?” An older, gentle looking man, age in the 40’s at the most, covered in dirt and grime, emerged.

“Good to finally meet you.” Enjolras stepped fully into the forge, and the door swung shut behind him.

“Always good to help a friend of Feuilly.” The blacksmith’s eyes darted between Combeferre and Grantaire. “Speaking of friends…”

“Yes, right.” Enjolras stepped aside and gestured to each of his comrades in turn. “Combeferre, my second.”

“And this young man?” he nodded at Grantaire.

“My name’s Grantaire,” he said, giving a small bow. “I am our fearless leader’s cynic.”

“A cynic?” the blacksmith scoffed. “You would have a Doubting Thomas in your most intimate company?”

Grantaire snorted. Enjolras hushed him. “Grantaire offers a valued alternate opinion. He allows us to see the opposing side and strengthen my argument.”

The blacksmith nodded in understanding. “Alright sir, alright. Now, do you want to see my product, or shall I hide it from France’s soldiers for another week?”

“I’d like it now, if you will.” Enjolras took the final step into the smoky forge to collect his prize.

“It’s a genius idea, I’ll give you that,” the blacksmith muttered to himself as he took a hammer from his belt and tapped it against one of the bricks in the wall.

“Is this how a blacksmith like you keeps business in such an industrial age? Giving favors?” Combeferre asked, following dutifully.

“Is there any other way to stay afloat in such a world?” The brick he was tapping came loose, and he withdrew it from the wall to reveal a false back within the brick. “If arming school boys to fight a nation is what I must do, than do it I shall.”

“Because a gun is what every school boy with a hairbrained idea needs,” Grantaire tsked.

“Keep your boy quiet, I’m a genius.” The blacksmith unfolded a band of leather, letting a sliver of metal glint in the light from the embers in his forge.

“This goes around the wrist?” Enjolras received it with careful hands.

The blacksmith nodded, watching while Combeferre fastened it around Enjolras’ wrist.

“Flick your wrist, that should activate the device.”

Enjolras did, and the blade slid out of its sheath silently, nicking Combeferre’s arm and ruining his shirt with a short slash and a splash of blood. Combeferre swore.

“Apologies,” Enjolras grunted, not taking his eyes away from his new toy. “Am I allowed two?”

“It’ll cost you another 14 francs.”

Enjolras handed over 30 without a word.

“Rich parents.” Grantaire explained with a shrug.

When Enjolras shut the blacksmith’s door behind them, he wore a pleased smirk.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asked when he caught up. “You seem odd.”

Enjolras spun on his heel and gripped his friend by the shoulders. “My armory is complete with the perfect weapon for an assassin of my nature, and each of my men are closer to preparedness than ever before.”

Combeferre’s eyes scanned over his leader. “I thought we were fighting for peace.”

“Fighting for peace is like fucking virginity.”

Comferre’s eyes widened behind Enjolras. He looked away and took a step back, then jabbed a finger in Grantaire’s direction. “You. This started the day he saved you from that guard. This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Grantaire scoffed. “His passions are suddenly my fault? If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one who’s been trying to bring him down since the first day of our acquaintance!”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “He uses your words, Grantaire. No matter how much you distance yourself from our cause, how much you claim to not be involved, he will always have your words. Just how greatly your words affect him,” Combeferre took a step back, his upper lip curling venomously. “That’s entirely up to you.”

~*~

“We can tell three things from a portrait. A subject, who the subject was, and what the painter thought of them. We know then, in this context, that this painting, L’amour D’imorato, is of the young lady of whom Imorato held so dear, and that R felt nothing but a strong kinship for this woman…”

~*~

“Cosette,” Grantaire caught the woman’s upper arm before she could be whisked away by his freckled friend’s charms. “Cosette, I have an idea that I wish to share with you.”

“Of course, Grantaire.” She waved to Marius, letting him know he could continue on with the others. “What is it?”

“A portrait for your gentleman love, a gift, if you will.”

“A portrait of me?”

“Painted by my own hand, of course.”

“I accept.” She beamed at him. “Meet me in my apartment around noon tomorrow the rue de l'armement, number five, and I shall sit for you.”

“Bless you.” He kissed her cheek before skittering off.

 

The next day, Grantaire was setting up his easel while Cosette changed in his direct line of sight, stripping off her outer layer of clothing, leaving her in a sheer chemise with a sheer corset shinining through. “What would you like me in?”

“Something blue.” Grantaire replied, laying out his paint set. “Robin’s egg, if you have it.”

She sifted through her chest of drawers while he pretended to have more than just his easil and his paints to set up.

“Grantaire, you do not even try to catch a glimpse of me.”

“I respect my friend. I would not do my friend a dishonour.”

“It is not a question of your dishonour.” Cosette peeked her head over his easel. “Merely a statement wondering about the rumor that you have something of a sinful nature when it comes to our leader.”

Grantaire glared up at her. “Perhaps by the window. The best light may be found there.”

“So you harbor nothing in his favor?”

“I have a vague ambition in that direction.” Grantaire mumbled.

So you admit you have no desires for the ladies of France?”

“Cosette.”

“I think you two would be a marvelous pair.”

Grantaire glared at her. “Don’t mock me.”

“Mock you? How do I mock you?” She gaped at him, looking genuinely scandalized. “I don’t mean to offend you.”

“By the window.” Grantaire ordered in a grumble. Cosette complied, arranging her dress until it was up to par with her idea of perfection.

The two sat in silence while Grantaire painted, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“I find it sweet, the affinity you hold for him.” Cosette said softly. “The intent behind my line of questioning was merely to see if he felt the same for you.”

Grantaire sighed. Cosette was an angel, he was sure. “We’ve been lovers for some time now. He says that he shares my passion, but I have a hard time believing it some days.

Cosette smiled brilliantly. “I hoped your longing gazes at one another were being satisfied somehow.”

Grantaire smirked. “I like to think I keep him very satisfied.”


	7. Chapter 7

~*~

“...Notice how this jacket, belonging to his lover, is laid out across the bed, sleeves outstretched, forming some sort of cross. The allusion to the crucifix is plain and clear, but who is the christ-like figure, the artist, or his lover? The answer is in the…”

~*~

“You’re being ridiculous.” Enjolras sighed.

“You are not my father, Enjolras, you cannot keep me here against my will!”

“But I am the leader, and I feel as though you would impair this quest.”

“You really think, after all we’ve done together, that I am not good enough to go with all of you to save this country! You think I am a failure!” Grantaire shouted, his palm flattening out on Enjolras’ chest.

“No, Grantaire,” Enjolras took his hand and held it between both of his, his voice steadily rising. “Listen to me, I love you-”

Grantaire tore his hand away. “If you truly love me, why do you note believe in me?!”

They were both yelling at that point, faces slowly getting closer.

“How can you ask me to have faith in you when you are a cynic! You believe in nothing!”

“I believe in you!” Grantaire yelled, their noses bumping, as they had drawn very near each other during their battle.

Enjolras’ mouth hung open in partial shock. He took a moment, then tilted his head to the side and surged forward, capturing Grantaire’s mouth for a fraction of a second before Grantaire shoved him away.

“Don’t- Do not try to sway me with affection.” Grantaire glared at him. “I am not only yours, I am my own as well!”

“And I yours!” Enjolras was enraged, on the verge of throwing things. “I love you, I cannot have you in danger!”

“And when I come home to an empty bed, what thought do you assume runs through my mind?! You could be dead!” Grantaire slammed his hand against the dark oak table. “Every day you leave me and risk your life! I need you, you selfish bastard!”

“Selfish?! I’m selfish for defending a people who cannot do the same for themselves?!” Enjolras stormed passed him and threw open the door. “When the King is dead, we can talk about your needs.”

When Enjolras was gone, Grantaire slammed the door shut behind him.

He picked up a paintbrush for a second, then tossed it down in frustration. No images came to mind, nothing he could paint away his pain with. But with a single breath one came to him.

He darted away from his easel and rummaged through Enjolras’ wardrobe until he found the jacket that was neglected because of its colour, this one not the brilliant red that Enjolras adored, but instead a dingy green that resembled more of a grey at first sight.

But instead of painting it, like he originally wanted to, he donned it quickly.

He darted out of his home, searching his backyard for his axe, tucking it into his belt. Spotting the axe of his neighbor, he went for that as well,  thinking it couldn’t hurt to have another in his arsenal.

It didn’t take long to find Enjolras, as he was stood atop a building, shouting down passionate banter to the crowd below.

Grantaire flipped his hood up and slipped into the crowd, ready to fight whether Enjolras liked it or not.

Enjolras, ever articulate in his mannerisms, swayed the crowd below into a unifying decry against the men who ran their country. Their shouts of rebellion grew in volume, drowning out his own words, and Enjolras turned to his second. “Combeferre, I need you to send Gavroche to find Grantaire.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “I want him to know, before this… battle, that I-”

“That you love him.” Combeferre finished for him. “Of course, Enjolras.” He took the slip of paper from him and dashed off to find Gavroche, who was lingering about the outskirts of the crowd, snagging bits of bread from the pockets of a few.

“‘Ello, ‘ferre.” Gavroche greeted him with a dirty grin, but the man shook his head.

“I need you to take this to Grantaire, and quickly. As quickly as you possibly can.” Combeferre handed him the note, and one franc. “The money is for you.”

“Thanks, mate.” Gavroche grinned and took both items, before darting off into the crowd.

However, when he arrived at Grantaire’s apartment, the man was nowhere to be found. the boy ducked through the house, but there wasn’t a single sign of life in the place.

Finagling the back door open, he snooped around the small yard, which held nothing but a wood pile and a chopping block. Gavroche frowned at the lack of an axe, but it may have been that Grantaire had misplaced it, like he does most things. Including, it seemed, himself.

Gavroche resolved to search the bars of the surrounding area. Grantaire had to be somewhere, of this he was sure.

~*~

“This piece is remarkably different than the others, as it uses chiaroscuro to contrast between the soldiers’ faces and a young man we recognize as l'innamorato, his sword buried deep in the soldier who seems to be the focus of the piece.”

~*~

Marius let out a triumphant cry as he withdrew his sword from the castle guard’s belly. He turned to slash out again, only to be tackled by another soldier.

The man was on him, knife at the ready, the killing strike aimed at his heart, before a blade, distinctly Enjolras’, buried itself in the neck of the man atop him, effectively killing him.

“Don’t want Cosette coming home to an empty bed.” Enjolras helped his friend up from where he’d been tackled, kicking aside the corpse.

“I could say the same for Grantaire,” Marius countered. (They shared a look after that, one that said ‘You know I love you both no matter what’ and ‘Thank you’.)

Enjolras nodded grimly. “If I… If I don’t return home, tell him I love him.”

Marius nodded and threw himself back into the fray.

Grantaire took this as his opportunity. The King was below him, shouting orders to his men and drawing his sword to fight off anyone who dared approach him, which right then, was no one.

Grantaire swung his legs over the railing and dropped the few feet to the ground, crouching behind the King of France.

The axe on his right hip came out of his case without a noise. He gripped it tightly with two hands, then swung.

The shouting stopped immediately, Grantaire could feel the crunch of bones through the steady wooden handle. A second swoop had the King’s head on the floor at his feet, meeting polished tile with a wet squelch.

Everyone froze, watching in bewilderment as their quest was achieved in two fell swoops.

Enjolras’ eyes grazed Grantaire’s heaving chest, shock evident in his features.

“Satisfied?” Grantaire growled, smearing some of the blood spatter across his cheek while trying to wipe it off.

Combeferre glanced between the two men, withdrawing his sword from the still heart of a soldier.

“This is your apology to me?” Enjolras threw a dead soldier off himself.

Courfeyrac swallowed. “Gentlemen, we do not have time to waste. The King’s army is on his doorstep!”

“This is my statement.” Grantaire sheathed his axe. “I am ending this foolish endeavor, for you mean more to me than all of France!” He was yelling then, gesturing madly. He grabbed Enjolras’ arm, leaving bloodstains on the ripped red fabric. “You, you,” he pointed to two of their followers, “guard the hall before the King’s chambers,” he growled, then dragged his lover across the castle and beyond chamber doors.

~*~

“...DNA testing has been done on this painting, and it has been confirmed it was done in the King’s blood.” The tour guide’s voice bubbled with glee. “The existence of this painting proved that R and his compatriots were the famed ‘Rats of Paris,’ a revolutionary group that killed the King in 1836. The names of these gentlemen are unknown to history, only their faces remain immortalized in R’s art.”

The tour guide referred back to the painting. “The details are hazy, but you can make out the face of a man here, looking down on the artist.”

His were closed in the painting, mouth dropped open and hair pulled back by an unseen hand. His collarbones were impossible defined, exaggerated to the point of irrevocable beauty.

“We can assume this man is looking down at the artist. Whether the artist is just waking up, receiving care for a wound, or doing other, more adult things, is up in the air. All we know is that it was done close to the day they killed the King…”

~*~

Combeferre stomped up the steps with great urgency, once gun in hand and the other still strapped to his side. The army was on their way, the other half that the group of young revolutionaries had diverted to the far end of Paris. And then they were alerted, unfortunately, of trouble at the castle. And now, his friends were running out of time.

Creeking could be heard from the end of the King’s door, accompanied with an orchestra of soft sounds and mumbles of something that could be a name.

Combeferre opened the door to one of Enjolras’ long, broken moans.

Linen sheets were riding low around his friend’s hips, thankfully covering the place he and Grantaire connected. Long, red streaks graced their leader’s exposed back; blood left over from Grantaire’s fingertips.

“Dear God,” Combeferre hissed, “what are you two doing!?”

Enjolras twisted his torso, not ceasing the rhythmic up-and-down of his hips. “I am with my lover, the man that has killed the King!” he said with a grin, one hand stroking down Grantaire’s chest.

“That man,” Combeferre pointed to Grantaire vindictively, “has committed a violent crime, and you lay with him in the King’s bed; treason upon trason!”

Grantaire sat up to suckle at Enjolras’ throat, eliciting a sound of pure joy. “I fail to see the direction in which your statement proceeds, friend,” Grantaire mumbled through flesh.

Combeferre crossed the King’s chamber and fired a shot through one window, using his elbow to knock the rest out. “An army wants your heads. You decide whether or not you die today.” He checked below him before swinging over the windowsill and disappearing from sight.

“We continue at home.” Grantaire rolled over to pull out of Enjolras; the other whined with the loss.

“Must we?”

“The sheets don’t feel right anyway.” Grantaire rolled out of bed and dressed quickly.

“The bed of a man worth 30,000 francs is not good enough for you?” Enjolras snorted, throwing on his jacket but keeping his shirt in his hand.

“One day out bed will be worth 100,000 francs,” Grantaire backed Enjolras against the broken window, forcing his lover to sit upon the wooden windowsill. “And we will be the most famous men to ever roam the Earth.”

“Very ambitious of you, my love.” Enjolras tugged Grantaire into a brief, fierce kiss before tumbling backwards out of the window.

“Grantaire watched as Enjolras hung upside down for a few seconds before looping his shirt around a flagpole and sliding down to safety.

Grantaire climbed down and sprinted after him, eager of the moments when they would finally return home.

~*~

Our final piece by R is done in a similar style to Davinci’s Last Supper; a panoramic view of the friends. This is the painting that originated their name; it is titled ‘Les Amis.’ If you’ll revert your attention to the upper left hand corner...” the tour guide gestured to a sign out the window in the painting. ‘Café Musian’ it read.

Along the painting, several men were depicted, drinking and laughing together. A black haired man sat with his ash-blonde friend, laughing with a long haired individual who was scribbling something down in a green leather bound book.

“As the eye travels to the right, you’ll notice more of these such characters, such as this young lady here,” the tour guide gestured to a blonde giggling as a freckled boy whispered in her ear. “Or, on the far right here, you’ll see R’s supposed love staring directly at us, or where the artist is sitting.”

He was depicted in his long tailed red coat, cockade displayed proudly on his chest. The light around his hair was brighter than the rest, creating a halo shape around him.

“The artist viewed this man as a god on Earth, worshipped him in the best way; through his art.”

A college student raised their hand. “Were they really in love? Or is that speculation?”

The tour guide smiled. “The depiction of this man is the most angelic, loved, and venerated thing I have ever seen. There are actually several paintings in the ID requisite portion of our museum that portray this man in several… adult positions with the artist, or who we assume is the artist. So many people have been in love, and so many of those people have a certain pure love between them, but R and his angel? Their love wasn’t pure after all; they were more than that. They were soulmates.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks and love to Ariel, for helping me re-type this when I lost the file, and to Teddy, who Beta'd for me. I love you both!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unity 2.0](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268717) by [IambicKentameter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IambicKentameter/pseuds/IambicKentameter)




End file.
